


A Small Thing

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [27]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Shortbird
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-16
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-28 06:21:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15701595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern
Summary: The Throne Room is not a home.





	A Small Thing

What a funny little thing.

He tapped his fingers absentmindedly on the Thrones arms, the blank smoothness foreign yet familiar enough to not bother his thoughts. The lights blazed about him, distant flames offering nothing but light and shadow, and Maxwell huffed a sigh, sagging back in the Throne.

The spinning drag of the gramophones needle played on, quieter now with the intrusion, a background noise sunk into his subconscious.

The new creation blinked up at him, tilted its round and bulbous, shell shocked eyeball laden head, before opening its lavender hued beak and chirping at him.

When he gave no reply, just watched it with tired eyes, the chick turned its attention to the ground, leaning over this way and that in unbalanced motions, huge eyelashes glinting and greasy feathering shining with a dull lavender sheen. It was still new to itself, new to everything, though it was a promising one.

There was no fear in it so far, nothing he could feel anyway. Just blunt curiosity and shreds of innocence, as was normal for new things.

As it waddled about, hopping and tripping and flapping its wings unevenly, almost falling but not quite, Maxwell idly tapped his nails on the Thrones arm, ignored the way the bindings about him tightened. The ache of bruises persisted no matter the invincibility granted to him here, and he'd be surprised if he'd ever walk again after this.

Just thinking of some ahead of time point where he'd actually be able to walk, to breathe freely and not have tendrils and claws wrapped about his wrists and ankles and chest, tight both over and under the shreds of what could almost not be called clothing, made the Shadow King grit his teeth and forcefully turn his attention back to the creature he had so very recently created.

No parents for this one, not like the ones he had gifted the above worlds to. In some sense he knew it was selfish, to bring one of these sun living beings down here, to toddle in darkness with only him and his prone boredom for company, but at this point he could care less.

There were whispers down here, loud enough for him to hear up above, under swathes of illusion and disconnect, and the temptation to listen in was getting all too strong as of late. Even the ever looped ragtime was drawing his attention less and less, almost white noise, eternal and constant and easily, so very easily forgotten.

So a change in formation, some idle distraction to pass the time, was in order.

The little birds chirps got his attention, high pitched and almost clucked as it scratched at the ground, not all that in control of its own two feet just yet. The furrows it made in the dust didn't seem to be of any use, yet its eye was turned downwards intently and it hopped this way and that, scratching and clawing and puffing up small dust clouds. 

Its antics seemed to make it more excited, chirps and peeps as it realized it could do more than just hop and trip; flapping its wings frantically, eye rolling about as it investigated the world around it, the chick started to race about.

The first time it tripped it squeaked out, tumbled and continued pumping its tiny legs, not even rolling to a stop before taking off once more. When it started to leap, jumps for no other reason than to just do so, Maxwell sighed heavily through his nose, closing his eyes with a look that wasn't quite grim but almost on his face.

Once, he would have been happily entertained, and maybe, in some deep part of his chest, he really was. This was a newborn, a chick learning of its feet, of its claws and muscles and the joy of movement, freedom.

This was his creation, his little creature, his child boon.

And all he could feel was the aching jealousy and envy of seeing it run.

His interest waned, the lights of the Throne room dimmed, bright suns darkening. The bird didn't notice, caught up now with a stick on the ground, a bit of dried vine it pecked and flipped about, hopping curiously around the flora skeleton.

Maxwell leaned his head against the Thrones back, felt the shadow and bindings ooze and tighten around him, felt the aura it was trying to convey to him, skin tight and comforting.

And then he flicked his hand, as best as he could with his arm tied down, going back to tap and scratch idly at the Thrones inky surface just as the pillars all went out in one whoosh of breath.

For a moment it was silence, just the shadow whisperings picking up, the music playing on and on quietly, in the edges of the world. Maxwell kept his eyes closed, relaxed as best as he could, and breathed in deep for a moment, sea salt air and stuffy dust, caustraphobia rampant and thundering.

And then there was a high pitched chirp, sharp and sudden and-

Maxwell winced at the sound again, tapping frustration against the Throne as he listened to the chicks heartbeat speed up. If he wanted to, he'd be able to see it out in the darkness, at every angle, but he didn't.

Maxwell didn't care for that approach all that much.

Unfortunately there was no energy in the blackness, nothing in the pitch, no visit, and Maxwell slowly let his palm rest on the Thrones arm, loosely curled his fingers about its smooth edge, felt the tendrils slither and chain him tight.

The chicks distress just wasn't enticing enough for her, he supposed.

With that, the birds shrill cries got louder, confused and all too new in the dark, misery encrusted world. 

He listened, apathetic, the fast knocking of its tiny heart and the scuffing of its claws in the dirt, it's one great eye no use for this bothersome darkness. Hearing it rush about, so very afraid, panic just oozing off of it, was almost as good as the pawns raw fear.

Here he was, Maxwell's face drawing into a harsh snarl at the realization of his own ineptitude, feeding off the sharp terror of his own created child. What a pitiful parent he turned out to be.

It would be a mercy, to end its life. Unlike those pawns and himself, this was its one and only chance, and then it was a deep sleep of sorts, a nothingness. If it had a voice, it would thank him for his mercy, his idle decision to end its miserable, darkness laden existence, to starve in this wasteland of a Throne Room with only him as witness.

For a long moment, he considered this, tap, tapping on the Thrones dark arm, feeling the bindings tighten about his wrists, slither along his back and slowly curl about his chest.

The closer he was ingrained into it, the safer he was, and he sighed as the shadows adjusted themselves, hard and rigid and holding all too tightly to him.

Then something brushed his leg, immediately distracting his bored mind with warmth and a quiet, distressed chirp.

Maxwell opened his eyes to darkness, bleak and empty, and the Throne wouldn't let him move himself enough but he looked down to his lap, staring to where the Throne had tied his legs to its own, effectively locking his joints into place. The bundled warmth of feathers pressed up close to him, against his exposed ankle, the ragged remains of his full suit barely past his knees, and the little bird chirped again, a low sound he recognized after a moment.

A distress call, a true one, and one to call attention from its mother.

Funny. This one had none, and yet it called for help anyways.

A moment passed where he considered, the chirps slow as he felt it run its beak against his leg and brush extended eyelashes over his skin, then Maxwell heaved a sigh and flicked one finger up, a simple, restrained gesture.

The two lights closest to him glimmered to life, dull and pale and barely there, but apparently it was enough for the tallbird chick.

With a soft peep of noise, it fluffed itself and suddenly leapt, up, tiny claws scraping his knees as it tried to find its footing before practically falling into his lap.

Maxwell froze, still, staring down at the insolent little thing, it's one lavender hued pupil looking up at him with an expression that only a bird could have, before churning out a few more peeps and then sitting, feathers up and great eye closing.

Its wings adjusted, shook out a moment, and then it relaxed, peeping quietly every now and then.

Well, now he had a bird on his lap, the shadows lapping against his skin yet not daring to touch the feathered newborn.

Maxwell blinked at it, scowl turning into distaste, tapping his fingers quick and fast against the Thrones inky arms as he fought off the growing urge to reach down and pet it.

To run his fingers through its feathers, feel its hollow bone structure and wing feathers, its tiny claws that would curl comfortably over his fingers and cling to him.

For a very long moment, Maxwell very much wanted to do that.

But then the Throne hummed underneath him, shadows tightening into leaving bruises about his wrists and ankles, his chest and neck, and the urge went away in an instant. Moving about was always a bad idea.

He eyed its purple shined feathers, the slow rise and fall from its every breath, and the still quiet purrs of noise from its tiny body, a different thrum from the Thrones soothing voice.

After a moment Maxwell sighed, relaxed back, let the shadows coddle him the way that they wished, tight and possessive. The bundle of warmth in his lap peeped happily, and he supposed that was all he was going to get out of it.

Before he let his mind drift and wander, before taking a deep breath and feeling the little bird copy him, quiet and with a soft peep, Maxwell idly decided that he'd send it up above in a short while, right to the very top, and perhaps in the nest of an expectant mother.

Maybe one that has had her offspring stolen and eaten? Those birds were always a little mournful after having their single egg taken away, and mayhaps he'd be able to stow this little creature into some mother birds warm, empty nest.

Yes, he thought, sighing quietly as the chick shifted and peeped at him again, almost like a question. It took some effort, closing his eyes a moment as he swallowed thickly, but a moment later and he made an answering whistle of sound, dry and hoarse but sound nonetheless.

The chick seemed to like that, at least, peeping a bit more as it fluffed up its feathers, warm and solid in his lap.

This was an oddly calming distraction, he realized, attempting to raggedly copy its sounds, clumsy and awkward and not at all bird like but somehow recognizable to the little thing.

Perhaps, because he made it so newly, it found his own answers familiar enough to feel safe around. 

All new creations were like that; the hounds having hopped about his illusionary form in the above worlds with tails wagging and joyous barks, spiders waving mandibles and limbs and following him about diligently as if he was one of their queens, beefalo huffing and gruffing and leaning up against him at times, ugly calves sticking close to his mock safety, frogs even eyeing him and keeping close, acting as if he were one of their own.

Tallbirds watching him from up high, a respectable distance and even more polite when he'd inspect their nests idly, sometimes in the spring allowing their hatchlings to follow him about while the parents went around for food and such.

The giants and trees were a given, since he had to put such thought into their creation, such handling and work, but the lesser creations he hadn't fully realized. The attachment to a creator was a strong one, and long ago it would have made him feel a little lighter, even tied down as he was.

But he was too tired for that. And, apparently, the little bird was getting tired to, peeping softly before stopping altogether as it drifted to sleep.

Maxwell looked at it one last time before tilting his head back into the Throne, looking out into the darkness, the faint traces of so many eyes watching him, studying him, entertained by him.

He'll send it upwards when it next woke up, he decided.

Maxwell closed his eyes, pretending that the milky white ones of the dark were doing the same.

He'd send it up, to a doting mother bird, and he'll stay down here, alone, like always.

No good being so selfish when handling his children.


End file.
